Our World As It Is
by Phoenixriser
Summary: Voldemort reigns over in a world caught by lies and deceit, of madness and chaos and where peace is a foreign concept. She looks for solace and the cure. Who would have thought that he would be too? Caught in the eye of the tornado, the two try to break out of their burdens, only to find that perhaps their storms aren't as different as they think. Does not follow the 7th book.
1. Prologue: A Simple Night

**Prologue: A Simple Night**

She stands at the edge of the platform, her hood covering all but her face and a few rampant auburn curls which continue to dance in the silent wind. Her arms cross, for once not in defense but in disapproval of a world she can do nothing to but judge. Her dark cloak bleeds into the night, mixing with the inky blackness, the velvety material not allowing highlights to be reflected in the full moon light.

Her eyebrows furrow as she peers onto the tracks, the wayward line of her mouth speaks of disappointment and misery, whispering only in soft exhales. Her eyes drift from the tracks, looking accusatorily at the moon. They seem to ask, _how are you so bright in this darkness?_

The light shines on the cobbled sidewalk behind where she stands, the highlights on the stone appearing to be blank, yet somehow omniscient eyes. Little does she know that behind those omniscient eyes, is another pair observing her, in a quizzical peace.

* * *

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Harry Potter, or any related characters, places and intellectual property. All rights are to JK Rowling.

**A/N:** Thank you so much for reading! I plan to update every week, (hopefully). I have the next few chapters ready, so I'm good for now ;)

If you have the time, please leave a review. This is my first story posted here, so I would love to hear your thoughts ^_^

-Pheonixriser


	2. Chapter 1: A Prior Engagement

**Chapter 1: A Prior Engagement**

He strolls with a smooth elegance that demands authority. His pace seems a bit too fast for the norm, but no one will dare question _the_ Draco Malfoy. Draco is _not_ a man who rushes, or would be remotely hurried by anyone, any old fool can tell you that.

Yet still, as his feet lonely _click-clack_ on the white marble flooring of their greatest monument known to man—the Ministry of Magic—he thinks of what he was indeed, _late,_ for. _Damn._

Let it be known now itself that no one is expecting Mr. Malfoy. Nor will anyone notice his lack of appearance at this appointment. But this is his tether to sanity. The one pleasure that would not make him a hollow man dependent on vice, nor would allow any harm to befall the other party. This is purely for him, and him, himself.

He passes the through the corridor, lined with a green and black stone which appear to be illuminated from the inside, casting an iridescent white glow as he steps out into the Atrium. His face maintains the calm composure and high raised eyebrow that spoke of the aristocratic respect that he is so well known for.

"Oi, Malfoy!"

"Yes, McNair?" sneers Draco, his lips curling into distaste. He turns to see the heavyset stature and protruding square jaw he is familiar with. The lace 5 o'clock shadow and the thinning brown hair that glints in the light from the gel slicking it back, only adds to his recognition. This does not faze the older gentlemen who is used to the other man's general foulness and superiority towards others.

"We're heading to Snake's Head tonight, for some drinks, and all the rest that lurks there," says the older man with a wink and a smirk. It does not take a genius to realize he is referring to the beings with two legs and mammary glands, who had fallen victim to the circumstances about them. "Did you know? Those Mudblood bitches actually fight back sometimes! When will they ever understand their place in the world?" He scoffs and shakes his head, looking at the floor in belittling disapproval.

"As if I would sully myself with the likes of them. The only use they have in this world is to be house elves or less. All else is far too high a grace for them," replies Draco, haughtily. The words burn in his throat and his mind berates him with pictures too ghastly to describe, haunting his thoughts. But, this cannot be shown.

He feigns disinterest, looking at the time , then back at the man, subtle yet pointedly. Draco does not wait for the man to leave. After saying his piece, he turns away, confidently striding towards a darker corridor branching off from the Atrium.

The man takes the hint, "Right, right Malfoy. We know you've got some in your house too" he half-yells towards the retreating figure. His immediate scowl and flush speak as loudly as if his thoughts are on a billboard—_how dare he turn away from me. Bloody prat thinks he's better?_ McNair, attempting to save face, turns and leisurely walks towards the floo, meeting up with Yaxley and Nott.

Draco approaches the lesser-known corridor, surreptitiously looking over his shoulder. Quietly, he exits the building, walking along the cobblestone streets that await him. Though the sun shines brightly—a rare occurrence around those parts—and the chirping birds spoke of happy times, the scene is marred by the mottled grey-green skin of the beggars around him. Those Muggleborns hurriedly hide, seeing his well known gait turning the corner. Some of them are even expecting him, already well away from the eye's reach. They know he would come today, as is his monthly routine.

Stories of the Ruthless Draco Malfoy are enough to give any child nightmares, forever scarring the mind and psyche of the listening audience. Him, the head of the Department of Mudblood Sanitation. Him, the Exterminator. Him, the Monster.

He walks through the street, abruptly disappearing, throwing up a small tornado of leaves in the after effects of his Apparition.

* * *

The familiar tug at the naval, the whirlwind of light and the sudden landing. He has rendered it to an art, stepping in from his Apparition with no more noise than a cat stalking the always tantalizing mouse.

But as he turns a corner, and sees that thick cloak outlining the female figure there, he does not pounce or attack. He has a feeling—no, he is sure of whom it is, but he chooses to remain ignorant and oblivious. In the world he is in, that is the only way to survive. However, he does not have to paint on his usual confidence, nor use a mask to trade his personality for his identity. Here, he can peacefully observe his little mystery.

Every month, once a month, on the last Friday from 7:00PM-8:00PM, she would be here, on Platform 9¾. Never once does he make his presence known.

For that one hour, he would lean against the brick wall at the back, staring at the girl whose features he sees only seldom, when she turns her face to the moon and her profile was visible. It remains unreadable, conveying no specific story, but always has the emotions written on to the curve of her full lips.

He can stand there and wonder, what is she thinking about? What has this harsh existence doled out to her? How does she get by?

He does not need to forget with women or drink. Not with the same incorrigible vices that haunt the shadows of every other man he must associate with. Unlike them, he does not need to feel guilty, and does not need to feel piteous against his own pathetic nature after committing the deed.

He can just escape with her, never talking, always resting in the companionable silence. She will never know, she will remain his untold secret—lying with him until the day he dies.

All is well, the silence broken only by the cheering of the tree branches as they clap and a lone wolf that may bale at the moon.

"I know you're here."

Hermione Granger turns toward her platinum blond visitor for the first time.

* * *

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Harry Potter, or any related characters, places and intellectual property. All rights are to JK Rowling.

**A/N: **Thanks for reading! Please feel free to leave a review :) I love getting feedback.

-Phoenixriser


	3. Chapter 2: Loss of Peace--or is it?

**Chapter 2: Loss of Peace... or is it?**

The mellifluous sound pierces the night, becoming entwined in the breeze, and being carried away as if it was never said. But, it had been, and now they could never go back.

Draco's eyes widen. No. This could not be happening. His only peace cannot be shattered as well. His eyes widen infinitesimally more and his weight moves imperceptibly onto his heels. Her once fair and lovely profile is now fully unveiled. She should feel proud, no one has ever made Mr. Malfoy appear this shocked.

"Well? Will you speak or are you going to just stand there?" He can only focus on those same expressive lips he has observed so many times before. His mind works in overdrive, trying to piece the voice with the picture, trying to animate the beautiful painting in his head.

"I have no idea what you are talking about," he replies. Draco is used to putting on a show at every other time, _except_ during their little not-so rendezvous. Being such an innocent setting with all the memories it has, this Platform cannot be poisoned by his the deceit of his act. This was where the train would take the young minds to explore. This was where a lifetime's worth of friendships began, not that Draco understood much about the latter.

Hermione raises an eyebrow, seeing through his aloofness as clearly as a window. His eyes remain glazed with the makeup of his mask, but inside, he cannot understand how her eyes seem to look through his, see his soul and put his heart under judgement, constricting it tighter and tighter.

"I will not be running away. I know you have seen me here often," Hermione states, plainly and simply.

To her, these nights are less of an escape, and more of a solace. You cannot escape that which surrounds you. But, she does not have to put on appearances here. She does not have to mask her feelings. She can simply be one with the chaos of a storm or one with the peace of a moon.

She has felt another presence there, ever since her first time visiting the area. At that point, she was ready to go with Draco, if he were to arrest her. Life without Ron seemed meaningless to her, and with Harry as he was…it was more of an inevitability, or so she thought.

But, her silent companion never approached her. Never talked, never left before she and never took his eyes off of her. She almost looks forward to their little meetings, for there is someone with whom she can be lonely, but not alone with. Every month for the past 3 years, he has accompanied her and for that brief moment in time, she is a little bit less empty.

Draco pauses, unsure of his next move. She takes a step towards him, and he feels he is being cornered. This world is a game of chess and even a pawn has the ability to kill the King if it gets too close. He very well cannot take a step back—no, not he who has such authority in the new reign of the Dark Lord.

"And? Should I care?" he says coolly, narrowing his eyes as he goes into his verbal defense. No pawn could stand up to a King's might!

She smiles a half smile, tilting her head and staring up at him from under her eyelashes. His breath catches. _Get__ yourself together! _

"I don't know why you do this. You make it seem as if I'm attacking you. How would I even be able to? You have not done anything to me, so why would I harm you?" She raises her eyebrow again, this time in innocent questioning. "Calm down, Draco. After all these nights, I'm sure we can speak like adults."

Now, something should be made very clear. No one, _no one¸_ calls Draco Malfoy, "Draco." That is a right reserved solely for his mother, and a name exploited by his father. That is _not_ meant for people like his former enemy, _Hermione Granger_. And so, if that does not make Draco's eyes widen like a deer caught in headlights, nothing would. She has used an arsenal that he did not know existed.

Yet somehow, his heart unclenches, his breathing slows and his jaw relaxes, his mouth going slightly dry. He is comforted by what should have been most repulsive. He is soothed by the musical voice that he has just begun associating with his monthly landscape.

"And what would we speak about?"

"Anything. Perhaps why? Or something else? This is not time for me to hide myself or scurry away. This is my time to be at rest and I think you know a little something about that too."

"What's your favourite colour?" blurts out Draco. She is getting just a little bit too close to hitting the nail on the head. And yes, ladies and gentleman, that is how the normally reposed and collected Draco Malfoy, decides to divert her attention.

Her smile grows, the shadows on her cheek hinting at dimples, though they are not quite visible. The serenity in her eye gives way for a little radiance that makes them glow. "Red, though not why you're expecting. You?"

"Silver, though not why you're expecting either," he counters. His eyes return to normal and a genial smirk overtakes his face. Now it is his turn to raise one ever-so challenging eyebrow, asking the question that both have too much pride to ask verbally.

"And what would I be expecting exactly?" She asks, challenging him back, her smile growing evermore slowly.

"I don't know. It is nothing of importance to me," he replies, jokingly rolling his eyes and putting on an overly pretentious look of haughtiness. The last thing he wishes to do was bring in their houses and Hogwarts and the rest of the world, when they were in their little bubble. Here, he is not a Death Eater, and she, not a Mudblood. He steps forward, meeting her halfway on the cobblestone sidewalk.

"And why is red your favourite?" He smirks, finally asking the question at hand.

She steps by his side, brushing his ear with her whisper, "Not just yet." He stands, paralyzed by her bold actions. When he finally regains control and turns to her, she is walking away. She looks to him one last time, those same unruly ringlets bouncing in her quiet laughter, and with a wink, her black cloak disappears.

His watch keeps ticking: 8:01, 8:02, 8:03. But still he stands there.

For once, a genuine smile on his face.

* * *

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Harry Potter, or any related characters, places and intellectual property. All rights are to JK Rowling.

**A/N: **As promised, chapter 2. :) Please feel free to leave a review :) What do you think of the one, Mister Draco Malfoy? ;P

And of course, thank you so very much for reading. Hope to see you here next week too :)

-Phoenixriser


	4. Chapter 3: Back to Reality

**Chapter 3: Back to Reality**

Hermione Granger, still flushed and slightly out of breath, makes it home just in time to answer the phone. Here, in Muggle London, she is free to roam around without fear of recognition, or of being identified as a Mudblood. She does not have to carry her very well forged Proof-of-Birthright (P.o.B), nor does she have to hide when she sees someone remotely familiar; even with her advanced use of spells to completely change her appearance, being the wisely cautious woman she is, she normally errs on the side of caution.

The familiar shriek of her antique style, red telephone brings her back to reality as she goes to answer it.

"Hi Ginny!" she starts, still upbeat from her recent meeting.

"Hey!" comes the reply, slightly laggard with a forced cheeriness that speaks of the other woman's fatigue.

"How's it going? Has he changed any?" Hermione poses the question, as she does, every Friday when they talk to one another. She tries to keep her voice cheery, despite the topic being anything but.

"Still the same. Neville's trying to get access to the Worlwigs' library and has been corresponding with Poppy and Hesperides—you know, Ms. Sprouts' daughter?—to see if any advancements have been made. But as of yet, nothing." Though Ginny Weasley's voice picked up with a sense of purposeful motivation, it once again deflates as she finishes.

"Well, don't worry! At least you know he is still getting his nourishment! And it's not like he has died! He will come back to us Ginny. He wouldn't leave you and Teddy. Not on your own," Hermione optimistically repeats the same reassurances, as she does every time. "To speak of the devil, how is the little guy anyway? He just turned 8 years old, did he not?"

"Yeah, the little bugger is starting to expect some respect around here," says Ginny, complete maternal fondness colouring her tone. "What—okay, okay, here! Hermione, a certain Mr. Lupin wishes to speak with you—Wait! Don't grab it! Don't-"

"Aunt Mione! Ginny Mommy is being mean to me! She says that I'm not old enough to know stuff, but I am! I should be able to play with my friends after school! All of them think it's really cool that I can change the shape of my nose and one guy said he would give me an AMERICAN dollar, if I had a pig nose for a whole day! But then she said that I can't do that stuff at school and she won't let me and-"

"Hold on, my big boy! Ginny Mommy has some work she needs to do. You cannot always expect her to be able to do the same things as the other parents. And you know that you're a wizard right, Teddy?" Hermione speaks in the most comforting, most advisory manner, as can be taken with the young boy. Though she isn't speaking to him face to face, she automatically widens her eyes and slowly nods to the nonexistent boy in front of her.

"Yes, Auntie," he replies in the typical I-know-I-know-you-don't-have-to-tell-me voice, the low tone associated with it still very high with his age.

"Then you know that other boys cannot do the same things as you can. That does not mean they are any less than you, but you want to make them feel better, right? You don't want them to feel bad about not being able to, right?" She effectively begins guilt tripping the boy, though it is more for his sake than his friends. It may be entertaining now, but who's to say how they will treat him for his differences later on? "So be a good boy—I mean, young man—and listen to Ginny, okay? Then next time I visit, I might have some chocolate frogs for you-"

"Yay! Yay! Okay, Okay! I'll be a good man! Bye, Auntie!" He leaves the receiver hanging on the cord, perilously attached to the base, Hermione can hear as much when he abruptly leaves with his promise of candy. She chuckles softly. Hearing the young boy even say the word, "man" is one of the most precious things in her life. She hears Ginny rush over and pick up the receiver before the weight hurt the wire.

"Teddy! Teddy! You can't—oh forget it,"-a contented sigh-"Anyway, is everything alright with you? You sound particularly happy" inquires Ginny.

"Everything's fine on my end. Just more of the same. Today, the sun was out so I'm just in a happier place," she replies, divulging nothing of her little meeting.

"That's good to hear. Anyways, Teddy's playing in the utensil drawer again, so I better go and stop him."

Another chuckle. "Okay, you go do that. If you need anything or if you find anything out, you know how to reach me. I'll talk to you later Gin. Bye!" After a short reply from her counterpart, Hermione hangs up the phone which sits on the small table near the door. A small smile still rests on her lips, though her eyes look bereft, staring down at the hardwood floor.

No matter how great the day was, and no matter how happy the sound of that little boy can make her feel, she has to return to reality, and this is it. As if on schedule, her mind automatically goes through everything that happened after Hogwarts, trying to find a hint, a clue, even a small breadcrumb, as to figuring out how her life ended up this way.

She walks through the open-concept flat, not paying attention and allowing her feet to guide her to the bedroom autonomously. She ignores the kitchen to her right and makes her way past the main living space on the left.

Contrary to what might be expected, her flat sports white walls, with 2 white sofas facing one another, accompanied by red pillow accents. There is a quaint wooden coffee table between the loveseats. The yellow-orange-brown of the hardwood floors and the small electric fireplace adjacent to the modest TV to the left of the couches makes the home very welcoming and cozy.

She makes her way, brushing past the couch and robotically finding the handle for her bedroom, which rests just past the TV and fireplace on the far left wall.

She drops her clothes on the red comforter that covers the single bed which is pushed against the wall, the black faux-wood frame seen only at the foot and head in simple swirled designs. She takes a moment to peer out the large windows just past her bed. The sky was dark, with midnight blues and jet blacks battling in the sky, dominated by that same full moon.

She places her wand on the desk next to the headboard of her bed, and approaches the small dresser-mirror table on the left side of the room. She takes out her pyjamas and for one moment before putting them on, stares at the woman in the mirror.

Standing at 5'6, she is of average height, though the pride in her tall stance makes her presence far more pronounced. Her red-maroon lips stand small in the middle of her face, blankly, though the weight behind their lines would not allow it to be mistaken for innocent. A light flush is still fading from her cheeks, her button nose in between them pronouncing the larger—though not too large—hazel eyes.

She pauses here, staring at the multi-faceted eyes. The black ring around the edge of her iris makes them appear infinitely deep, while the once radiant brilliance of the golden-brown-greens spoke of untold mysteries and honesty in secrets. However, they now stand dull, murky in the face of her judgment; the eyebrows narrow slightly, half in disapproval, half in accusation. Her hair tumbles over her shoulders, resting comfortably between her shoulder blades.

It should be said now, Hermione Granger does not look for vanity. When she changes her appearance every day, it is of little consequence what she really looks like. This is for her to compare herself to the bright and effulgent Head Girl of Hogwarts, or the forever passionate Valedictorian of Worlwigs School of the Advanced Magical Arts.

She goes back to her train of thoughts, considering her life and her past. That is how she works, that is her analytical, ever thinking mind. Always calculating, trying to find the discrepancy.

And that is how she relives some of the worst moments of her life, succumbing to the nonclinical of her numbness.

* * *

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Harry Potter, or any related characters, places and intellectual property. All rights are to JK Rowling.

**A/N: **Yay! An early update for Canada Day! Happy 147th ^_^ Ya, I know its a little late, but I'm sure it's July 1st somewhere in the world. ;)

Thanks so much for reading! Please feel free to leave a review. How surprised were you to find out that the word "nonclinical" is actually the noun form of the adjective "clinical"? *sighs* this English language of ours... *facepalm* :P

And of course, I love getting feedback so let me know what you think. What do you think happened to Hermione after Hogwarts?

By the way, I drew a pic of what I imagine Hermione to look like. Look on my profile to see a link to her :)

Lemme know what you think!

-Phoenixriser


	5. Chapter 4: Tales of Years Past

**Chapter 4: Tales of Years Past**

She reminisces, thinking back to the Hermione Granger who graduated top of her class as Head Girl from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry (as expected). She reflects on the surprisingly productive Hogwarts year she spent with her fellow Head Boy, Draco Malfoy. Though they could only tolerate one another's presence by splitting up the work entirely, otherwise avoiding and ignoring the other's existence. _Except,_ she thinks, _for exam time_. That was when graduation started lurking behind their footsteps, waiting to be organized.

The two had, very begrudgingly and reluctantly, worked together to plan a beautiful graduation—the one thing they could simply not split up. Neither one wanted to give up control of the last major event in their Hogwarts career (though Draco would vehemently argue that Hogwarts was of little importance to him and that he simply could not allow a bushy-haired Mudblood to organize an event which he was going to be given half of the credit for anyway).

Somehow, they found a way to work out the event, and even stayed in the Head Dorm's common room, silently studying away for exams in front of the fireplace. Don't let this fool you, both will tell you that it was only because the library was too full (or had too many idiots for Draco's liking), outside was too distracting (blasted Hufflebutts and Gryffindorks ruined the scenery) and their separate bedrooms were too cold (damned, drafty school!). But, somewhere in the deepest, _most_ hidden crevice, they found a little peace in being able to diligently study in a (semi-)companionable silence (except for the occasional necessary insult exchange or bickering, of course).

Hermione fast forwards to graduation: the two gave their joint speech, with the normal niceties and inspirations, ending off with the release of white doves across the lush green fields, rejoicing in the bright sunlight. People laughed, some cried, and promises to keep writing to one another rang out from all around. Collin Creevy captured as many pictures as he could, being hired by the school so that they may be kept in a "Scrapbook of the Year" in the school library (Hermione's idea, much to Draco's distaste).

Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley would leave for Auror Training shortly thereafter, explaining that they are meant to remain in total isolation from the outside world during their 4-year training period. She shakes her head, a small smile gracing her lips as she thinks back. While Harry seemed apologetic to his friends (namely Hermione), Ron seemed a little bit too pleased at the prospect of not having to write letters to all his family and friends.

Hermione and Ronald had decided to take a break in their relationship, keeping on good terms but trying to be realistic in the face of several years of separation. Ginny and Harry however, were too close—far too attached—to agree to something they felt was much too drastic. They kept their relationship status, promising to keep strong even in the years of separation.

Many Slytherins either joined the Ministry of Magic or went off the grid, hardly any caring enough about one another to want to keep in touch. Draco was part of the latter option, disappearing in a flourish of expensive black robes and platinum blond hair with his mother and father.

Hermione did not join the boys on their Auror adventures, choosing to put her Outstandings in NEWTs to good use and seeking higher education in America. With glowing recommendations from Headmistress Minerva McGonagall and all of her other teachers (except the ever-bitter, Severus Snape), her acceptance to the very prestigious Worlwigs School of the Advanced Magical Arts came post haste, and she left to the US—her precious books, wand and bag in hand.

Hermione's smile grows with the nostalgia, as she thinks of the eager little keener she had been as a student, ready to explore the world and face whatever came her way. But, "whatever came her way" was … _more_, than she was prepared for. Her smile falls, the light in her eyes diminishing once more.

The following year, she had been joined by one Miss Ginerva Weasley, also graduating as Head Girl. Ginny had chosen a major in Maladies and Medical Studies, while Hermione had chosen a general concentrate, essentially joining as many courses as possible. Hermione was a woman who wanted to keep her options open; who knew what wonderful and exciting jobs would await her when she returned to London!

The two girls tried as often as they could have to visit Andromeda Tonks, who had moved to America with the infant Teddy in Hermione's 6th year following Remus and Nymphadora Lupin's passing. In her sixth year, what with the battle and Albus dying at the hands of Bellatrix Lestrange, Andromeda felt she needed somewhere else to start a fresh life with Teddy. Hermione and Ginny missed their homes—the love, the laughter, that blanket of reassurance and comfort—soon becoming very close to the older woman.

Slowly, but surely, the two received fewer and fewer letters from their friends in London, and none from Harry and Ron (as expected). Attributing this simply to their friends having moved on in life, they thought little of it, only slightly saddened by distance that grows with every _tick_ of the clock. Though, one thing did strike them as odd: the declining rate of letters from the Weasley Household. _Why didn't I notice it then? Why did I not try and look into it more?_ thinks Hermione, berating herself for what she can only see in hindsight: the seed of regret.

At the time, with the course breakdown as it was at Worlwigs, Ginny and Hermione had school all year round split into 3 semesters, though the intensity of each semester varied with their chosen courses. As a result, they both had little time to visit loved ones, let alone ponder on things so trivial so as to the number of letters they were receiving.

In her 3rd and final year, Hermione graduated as Valedictorian. At this memory, she does not smile as she did thinking about her Hogwarts days. She does not get lost in her feelings of passion and drive nor does she rekindle the spark in her eye. This was the beginning to a road of bitterness and regret; her lips curl in agitation and her eyebrows rapidly furrow. She moves on to the following events hurriedly, her eyes large, moving calculatingly back and forth as if she could see the events unfolding right then and there.

She had been overjoyed by her graduation and prepared for the workplace, wishing Ginny luck in her fast-approaching final year before departing for home-sweet-home: London.

This was a mistake.

Getting clearance for international Apparition took its sweet, bureaucratic time, but once it came through, Hermione stood in the Port and arrived back in the best city in the world, or so she thought. She had apparated into a dark room, stumbling as the luggage in her hands settled. She had called out, but no matter how many verbal inquiries she made, there were no replies and the room had prevented the use of all magic, as if someone had put up the defensive barrier once more.

A sudden light had appeared through the crack in the door and in peered Arthur Weasley, a wide-eyed astuteness in his eyes as they darted about the room. He had jerked her from her confused stupor, grabbing her hand, and finding a dark corner in the adjacent room, pulling out a toothbrush Portkey to take them home.

Hermione's eyes close and her eyebrows relax, but not in tranquility, in helplessness. Her hands clench loosely as she bows her head, backing up towards the bed and taking a seat as her knees hit the frame.

After having been taken to the Burrow, she had been filled in on what happened in her absence.

Ron and Harry had been steadily and successfully making their way through the ranks in Auror Training. Having reached the second last year, they were doing more and more rigorous training exercises which became all too important as Voldemort gained power following Dumbledore's passing.

But, no doubt, nothing can stay perfect for long.

The two met with the unimaginable; what you could theoretically predict, but fervently hoped would never happen: real Death Eaters had ambushed the training session. Taking place in one of the forests around the training area that was quartered off for them, there was more than enough to provide both parties with ample advantage of camouflage and disadvantage of sight. Caught in the whirlwind of madness—the confusion, shock, terror, and only then, action—there were many casualties. Bad enough, there had been one death.

Worse:

It had been one Mr. Ronald Bilius Weasley.

She inhales sharply, her nails indenting the soft skin of her palms as she turns her head away and shuts her eyes tighter, crunching her face into one mass of misery and sadness. She holds the breath in her throat, trying to suffocate the growing lump. Slowly her fists unfurl and her eyebrows unknot. Her mouth returns to its original, flat pose, letting go of the grimace. Her eyes remain closed as she loosely holds onto the red comforter. Her chin tilts up defiantly at the mirror on the other side.

On that day, Hermione had collapsed, her lung punctured by the stabbing pain and her heart crushed under the burdenous weight of sorrow. She was cared for heavily by the Weasleys, awakening a full day later, only to receive a greater shock still.

Harry Potter was missing.

Well, to the general public that is.

In the chaos of the day, people recall having seen him run into the forest, chasing some of the Death Eaters. The Weasleys speculated that Voldemort was likely waiting there, ambushing him with some unknown curse and putting him into what they can only name a "Forever Sleep." His comatose state not only terrified her in how eerily peaceful it seemed, but was even worse since any knowledge—her air to breathe—was not found on the topic. Even the name was one coined by the Weasley family for simplicity's sake.

Hermione holds her neutral pose, only the slight wobbling of her eyebrows when all other features stand in stillness, betrays her reaction to the news she had heard long ago.

Neville Longbottom, who had been part of the reinforcements for the Medical Team, found Harry in the forest and after verifying the stability in his vitals, had apparated him to the Weasleys, alerting no one else for fear of there being a traitor in their midst.

Shortly thereafter, using certain… undisclosed means of transportation (out the backdoor, so to speak), Neville had taken Harry to America, after they had all decided it was best that they find a treatment for him away from London. This all happened only a week prior to Hermione's arrival, Harry having been transported only a day earlier. He and Neville would arrive in Ginny's flat the following day, much to her shock and piercing heartbreak.

Hermione takes a deep breath, resigning herself to the current situation. Her eyes open and she stares blankly into their reflected depths in the mirror, reviewing her current situation.

For the past 4 years, Ginny has been living America, tirelessly searching for a cure for Harry, or at least some information as to his condition, the latter two years also caring for Teddy Lupin after his grandmother passed away naturally with the flow of time. Ginny became a successful Mediwitch but was forced to age much before her time from the weight of all of the responsibilities on her strong but petite shoulders. Neville stayed in America, supporting Ginny while running a shop to sell medical herbs and potions to the wizarding population there.

Though Teddy had been 6 years old when he was put into Ginny's care, without ever having known his birthmother personally, he took to calling her "Ginny Mommy" out of what seemed a need to feel at home and with family, having had so little all of his life.

Hermione had spent the years creating a new identity for herself. The only way she could be of use to what remained of the Order, was to find information on high-class Death Eaters. And so, she had pulled up her socks, taking on a new short statured and inherently friendly appearance and becoming Penny Rosary, a Halfblood maid.

The Weasleys had receded further and further into hiding, unable to work freely due to their Bloodtraitor Status. The elder brothers moved out, working in different corners of the world in their respective fields, though the twins still run their joke shop proudly in what remained of Diagon Alley. Arthur & Molly Weasley became the backbone and the heart to the Order of the Phoenix, being seen most commonly at 12 Grimmauld Place since both were unable to do much else. Arthur, though theoretically still working for the ministry, makes his presence scarce, returning only as often as needed to keep out of suspicion.

All the while, Voldemort grew in power, being the puppeteer behind every hand of influence and using that same string to choke the life out of all those who got in his way. Though his reach only extended throughout London, as of yet, he slowly started gaining footholds in Europe, his wrath being feared by all. The world was in for the next plague, and he is the master who decides it.

Mass murder of Muggleborns and Bloodtraitors became commonplace news pieces. Any voice crying out against the rebellion would be drowned in the crimson of their lifeblood, becoming an example to all those who took their lead.

This desolate life of deceit and trickery where shadows and darkness reigned supreme, is what the world has become. This is what she sees with the spark in her eyes slowly draining out through every tear shed hopelessly in conversation to her pillow under the cover of nightfall. This is what she must resign herself to every morning when she looks,

In that very same mirror.

* * *

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Harry Potter, or any related characters, places and intellectual property. All rights are to JK Rowling.

**A/N: **Yay! Long chapter! :) I'm a little iffy on the writing of this chapter, so please let me know your thoughts on how I could improve it.

As for updating, my summer's becoming crazy busy now so I may be a little irregular with posts, but I will try my hardest to post a chapter a week still. Especially because the next chapter is a bit daunting for me to write,since starts getting into the real life of the story, I'm having some blocks with it. I've started writing it but ya... I could use some motivation! ;)

It just so happens to be a certain someone's birthday soon, so please be a little lenient with me, for my updating ^_^

And, of course, I love hearing any thoughts you have, so leave a little gift for me in my inbox please! (such as...a review *wink-wink, nudge-nudge* ^_^)

Thanks! And see you (write you?) next week! (Hopefully...)

-Phoenixriser


	6. Chapter 5: Lost in Oblivion

**Chapter 5: Lost in Oblivion**

"_Wow…" she breathes. Her voice trails quietly in the air, picked up by the branches as they carry the last of her breath up higher into the night. A few stars wink in the sky, seeming to have a conversation with the crescent moon._

_She approaches the translucently pale, yellow dome slowly, both in caution and in awe. The relaxed face, the slowly heaving chest, the bed of petals and deep green leaves make the man seem like an innocent boy, accidentally having fallen asleep after having passed the hours by, playing. His lightning scar seems to harmonize with the surroundings, simply personalizing it, rather than bringing memories of an unpleasant past. The frame of withered and weary bark would seem foreboding, had it not been for the lively and rich brown colour, almost golden from the softly luminescent cage._

_Her large hazel eyes reflect the scene in wonder, widening with every step she takes, but closing with a sigh every time she holds herself back, afraid to ruin such a serene moment. Her bare feet welcome the dark green grass, overgrown and wild, making a flat carpet for the visitor with every step she took._

_Finally, she reaches the dome, taking the chance and putting her hand against it. It is as smooth as glass, as warm and cozy as a hearth. She relaxes, and any lingering tension in her body ebbs and flows out of her body like the tide with the moon. _

_Suddenly, a wind blows and the grass flies up, pricking her ankles and blowing her curly hair into a knotted mess around her face. She throws up her hands shielding her features. The dazing spell is broken. Her eyes are alert, becoming panicked as they see the grey-black smoke tickling in from the edges of the dome, working their way to the sleeping boy._

No! Harry!_ she seems to yell, though nothing is heard in the dome. _Wake up! Please!

_She shakes her head in all directions, letting her eyes lead it as she searches for a way to save him. And that is when she sees it. A piercingly bright, but overwhelmingly frail and thin hair-like strand, branching from over his heart, leading off the bed down the side of the tall wooden frame, to a small brown heap, a little ways away from the edge of the cage._

_She does not know what that book is. She does not know the name, nor author, nor the exact contents. But she knows it is the key. She knows that it is the only solution._

_She bangs against the dome that separates her from the now horrifying scene. The grass dies as the smoke brushes over it. The already withered wood seems to fall apart as it passes over, inching its way to the sleeping boy. Her fingers scratch, claw and push. Her eyes leak tears and she yells._

_She screams. She shrieks. She cries._

"_Harry! HARRY!-"_

"HARRY!" Hermione bolts up in her bed. Her hands clutch the bed sheet and her eyes dart to every corner of the room, trying to identify her surroundings. Her heart beats faster, roaring in her ears, her left hand grasping her shirt in an attempt to keep it from coming straight out of her body. Her breathing is the only sound in the room, loud and heavy, a marathon in its own right.

Slowly, her eyes identify the large window and the neat desk. She is nearly startled again when she sees the eye peering back from beyond the dresser table, in the mirror. But this is a familiar scene. It is her home. She can be calm.

With a final deep breath heaving all her body and exhaling all the worry, her back slouches and calms. _It was just a dream._

She glances at the alarm clock, glaring 5 AM in annoyingly bright red characters. She sighs, _Might as well._

Hermione climbs out of bed, and starts her morning routine.

* * *

She tightens the bow in her hair, and pats down the black knee-length black dress. With one last check to make sure her white stockings do not have any runs, the woman heads to the main room.

To the untrained eye, the one that does not know of her prowess, nor of her circumstance, this would appear to be Penny Rosary, the Halfblood maid-servant. With her welcomingly short stature at 4'11, and the long pin-straight brown hair tied into a neat, high ponytail, she appears every part the sweet little maiden. The rounded face, with excellent use of blush make her cherubic complexion all the more innocent. She wears a simple black maid outfit, complete with a doily-lace design apron tied with a large bow in the back. Her dark blue eyes, with large black pupils seem uncannily all-knowing, but very obviously unsuspecting.

With one last once over, she picks up her small red bag (with its Undetectable Extension Charm, of course) and heads towards a small door at the back of her living room, behind her sofas. With one small incantation, green fire tickles the bricked alcove behind that inconspicuous door. Her eyes reflect the neon colours a moment longer before she rests her hand on the edge of door frame. She glances back at her living, closing her eyes and allowing the indulgence of a single sigh.

With the burst of green, the flames die down and all is quiet.

* * *

"And just where do you think you're going?"

The maid quickly turns around. There is no point in being startled, and much less in showing an emotional response of fear. That would make her guilty, and give her reason to be punished. Besides, it would be pathetic for her not to be able to cover up emotions if she is to do this job properly for the Order.

"Why, nothing, Master McNair. I simply noticed there were a few more rooms that I may have missed dusting. This is such significantly sized manor for such a man indeed. Is there anything wrong with that?" She smiles a Barbie-doll smile, her voice oozing sweetness with every word she speaks. Her subtle sarcasm is undoubtedly lost on the man.

Walden McNair's expression, with the secretive smile and disparaging eyes, speak of arrogance in a knowing manner, though his proudly puffed out his chest gave away how little he actually received compliments. "Well now, are you supposed to go in there? I thought I've told you not to," his eyes narrowed, leering at the petite girl, "Perhaps I should punish you?"

His gaze drifts down her bodice before making its way up to rest on her bust. Well used to Death Eaters' unwelcome and unsettling advances, she does her usual.

She takes a step forward, looking up at the taller man from beneath her lashes, piercing his eyes with hers. The smile in her lips speaks of seductive secrets, while her leaning forward brings her chest closer to his. The man becomes engrossed in her look, unable to deviate his eyes from hers. They become wide in surprise and shock, his mouth opening and repeatedly licking his lips.

The mature and sultry gaze she gives him is unlike what he expected on the face of this virtuously childlike girl, and he loses himself in the confusion between the purity and stabbing honesty in her eyes and the playfully, _naughtily _smiling, deeply full lips.

She laughs a joyful laugh, (in her mind only, no doubt), and decides to play with him a little further. Biting the bottom corner of pouty lower lip she draws his gaze to them, watching him mimic the movement with his own lips like a puppy being hypnotized by the enticing bone. She breaks eye contact for only a second, this time returning his look with a different flavour. She turns the full force of her profoundly blue eyes to him, the striking innocence contrasts the depth of secrets, stunning him further, his eyes falling dazed and being lulled adrift into her trance.

So adrift, that he does not, indeed, notice her hand moving ever-so slightly at her side. Suddenly with a slight jump, he stands ramrod straight, his legs clenched tightly together. He looks up above her head, past it in shock. His hands snapped to his lower back, but were almost forcefully pushed forward to his sides, trying to remain unaffected.

"Well yes, um… Don't do it again." he says distractedly. With his eyes still locked on the wall behind Penny, he hurriedly walk-jogs in the opposite direction, his legs and butt tightly clenched all the while.

_Aaah, Incontinence Spells… One of the world's wonders_… And with that one wandless, unspoken spell, Hermione Granger—no, Penny Rosary, is able to throw off suspicion, keep her dignity and make her "Master," whoever the poor, unfortunate soul might be, lose his in the process. Usually, being so distracted by their sudden, irregular bowel movements, they forget all about their thoughts of _punishment_ and of the hidden seductress-like woman in their mist.

She chuckles softly to herself, still smiling as she looks around the hallway. _No one, _a sigh of relief. She tries to open the mahogany door, fully aware that it is probably locked. With the lightest touch—not even fully gripping the ornate, semi-tarnished silver handle—the door mournfully creaks open.

Her eyes narrow. _Something doesn't feel right._

Beyond that always-so secretly kept door was a dark hallway, with only a staircase leading to God-knows-where beyond its curve. It would be only mildly suspicious, had it not been for the darkness of it; the walls, flooring and ceiling all having been painted black.

"_Lumos,_" she whispers, swiftly whisking down the stairs, with the practiced ease of secrecy. The very bottom of the stairs are already bathed in the soft glow of lit candlelight, coming from somewhere to the left, hidden due to the L-shape of the stairs.

Though her feet make no noise, she stills, listening for any signs of life present in the next room. For some reason, her chest begins to feel heavy, weighed down by some sort of anxious anticipation. Her breathing, already soundless, becomes even more cautiously controlled. The weight in her heart seemed to inch down her legs, a creeping worm that left her feet suddenly feeling like sandbags.

After what felt like hours, though only a few seconds, she fights the gravity of her limbs. Lifting one foot with all the noise of stagnant air, she places one in front of the other, her back propped tightly against the flat, black wall, becoming bathed by that same light. She gulps, allowing her eyes to close for a moment before finally witnessing the scene that awaits her, beckoning softly,

With that innocent little glow.

* * *

The man took a knee, his platinum-blond hair still radiant in the dungeon-like low lighting. You could mistake his pose for humble deference, if not for his chin, still picked up slightly with characteristic pride, despite his bowing his head.

"Yes, yes... Welcome _Drrrraco,_" says the inhuman man, his slippery voice rolling his Rs automatically with his Parseltongue roots.

"Is there _anything_, I can do My Lord?" Draco looks up at the Dark Puppeteer of the world, though he remains kneeling. His left hand positions itself over his heart and his head once again bows after reaffirming his allegiance with the oath-like question.

"Well, well, it is getting... _difficult_ for me Draco. Spies are all around us now, aren't they?"—his eyes wander the room for a moment before he takes his mischievously malicious half smile and looks belittlingly at his follower—"**It** needs to be moved, somewhere safe and _within my reach_." The grey of his long fingers meets platinum, glinting in the small white-blue light coming from above as he lightly pets the man's head.

Every fibre in the Death Eater's body wishes to run—not out of fear, but utter revulsion. Draco's eyes close and his nostrils flare imperceptibly with the slight inhale he takes to subdue his disgust. From afar it would appear as he is enjoying the caressing gesture.

"I need _you_ to take **it** for me," that slimy, scaly hand slides very softly, _tenderly_, across the pale white cheek, stroking its way down to his chin. Leaning the flat of his bare foot against the bowed man's knees, the Dark Lord bends closer to him forcibly guiding his chin to face him. He cups that angled and proudly held chin like a lover, seemingly taming and caging the defiant beast within his follower with his soft touch. Red meets silver with a distance of only 8 inches.

The icy feeling of his undead skin, even through his clothes and particularly on his face, nauseates him, but dutifully, the Death Eater returns the look with a little pride, but full devotional.

"Yes, My Lord."

* * *

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Harry Potter, or any related characters, places and intellectual property. All rights are to JK Rowling.

**A/N:** *Hides behind the nonexistent curtain, smiling all the while* hehe, is it wrong i got some pleasure out of writing a cliffy ;) Did anyone else notice the twisted Black Butler (Kuroshitsuji) reference in the chapter? I couldn't stop smiling like a maniac when I wrote it.

However...

Woohoo! I got the chance to write up chapter 5 :) Working on chapter 6 as we speak. BUT... I probably won't be able to upload next week because my weekend is PACKED, I'm leaving on a vacation next week and I have summer school ending this week. *Hides behind the nonexistent curtain again* Sorry! I'll try my best though!

In other news, you may have noticed that I added chapter titles. To be quite honest, I always thought I would add titles but somehow I got so caught up in writing this fic, I forgot all about them. So, here you are! ^_^

Also, I drew a pic of what I imagine Hermione to look like. I know it isn't great, but I tried my best. Look on my profile to see a link to her :)

Let me know what you think, and especially if you have any tips on how I could improve my drawing or writing please let me know :D

Hope to see you next week!

-Phoenixriser


	7. Chapter 6: Unexpected

**Chapter 6: Unexpected**

You know that feeling? The one where you are confused but your mind can't understand why? With that intangible perception from the same sense that tells you when someone is staring even when you don't look to see for yourself. When your feelings or intuition, or whatever it is, tries to tell your mind something but the practical part of your mind tells you there is nothing to fear.

This is what Hermione is feeling at the moment.

It isn't fear, as stated. In her line of work there is no room for fear—but that gut feeling warns her of the worst and makes her hyper-aware of everything. However, unlike other times Hermione couldn't see any danger—quite the opposite in fact.

The deep red carpet, the large floor-to-ceiling shelves and the red-brown leather sofas, seating only a person each are left facing one another in quiet conversation. The hearth lies right behind the sofas, the orange-yellow flames tickle its roof, dancing and growing as she steps in. The smell of old and yellowed parchments having recorded the untold tales of centuries past with the bent withered spines of the hardbacks from a patron's exploration through the years, all are tucked into the bookshelves like a child in sleep. This is a familiar scene, a home-away-from-home: a library. _What is it? Why I am I feeling such anxiety?_

Then it struck her.

She could hear no noise.

It is so silent, it's deafening.

Not even the familiar and expected warm crackling of the fire is heard. Her eyes open in horror and she glances around swiftly, clinging her back to the nearest wall with immediate attention. Despite her training and precautions, her other senses had somehow mistaken this illusion for truth. Her ears are the one thing that had a small piece in them, reporting her location to the Order and when activated, conveyed all the sounds in that room as well. Somehow, they did not fall victim to the spell.

_Now I know what I am facing, _she thinks. Her mind bitterly berates her, _Quite the equivocal statement, no?_ The optimistic part of her says, it is true, she knows that she is up against an illusion. But the realistic side of her chides her, saying it is not true, she does not know if and what else she is facing.

But what she also knows is that in her semi-panicked state, nothing can be done rationally or logically. With a quiet huff, she closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, letting the air stream through her body; a cooling wave blankets over her hyper-aware nerves and she feels every inch of her skin but without the jittery electricity of hasty agitation.

As she exhales, she begins to sense the difference in the air. No longer is there the pleasant smell of ancient stories captured in the many leaves of a book, replaced by the very faint smell of damp glass and wet ink, contaminated by water. Then she hears the first sound since coming to the basement, a small _drip-drip_ somewhere to just to the right of her.

Slowly she feels the shift through her nerves. No longer does she feel the flat plaster wall on her back, replaced by the many grooves between brickwork, bringing the numbing chill to her touch. Her small black flats seem to harden from the dampness beneath them, freezing the soles.

Finally, she rips off the bandaid. Without a moment of pause she opens her eyes fully, taking in every aspect of the room—not in amazement but with strategic, calculating analysis. The sight before her is enough to set anyone on edge with the sheer eeriness of it—but not her. Despite having worked at McNair's for 2 ½ months already, she has only now come across the nest of the snake, caught in the tree that spread its dark roots throughout the manor.

The black motif from the staircase carries into the basement, the brickwork painted black with the crumbling and weathered facade revealing the grey cement under its skin. The room was very small, a mere 15 feet by 15 feet room in all and only about 10 feet tall, like an alcove hiding away the secrets of the world. But no amazing nor fantastical wonder of the earth resides there, only the embodiment of the gritty filth under it.

The fireplace reveals to be empty, traces of floo powder all about it. The walls are mainly bare, save for a single ceiling height, narrow bookshelf in the far right corner, perpendicular to the fireplace. The centrepiece of the room is nothing more than a shabby wooden desk, messy and bent over with one uneven leg and papers all askew as if thrown in a rush. The only light came from a small, four panel skylight from above the bookshelf, filtering in a stained green light from the pond in the McNairs' courtyard, not unlike the Slytherin Common Room.

For a moment longer Hermione stayed in stark calculation. Her eyes catch the trail of dead rodents at the edges of the room—witnesses killed in hasty, paranoid flight. _But what was cleaned up so hurriedly?_

Completing her analysis of the room, she steps forward, cautiously, towards the most important part of the room: the desk. The desk speaks of use and misuse like a child crying out after being mistreated and terrorized time and time again. The papers scattered across it's surface lay naked in all their haphazard glory. But there isn't anything special about them, absolutely nothing to see.

Why?

They are all _blank_.

Tattered edges, stained with water and covered in a fine layer of dust. Scattered and left forgotten on that desk.

And, in the middle of this miserable scene lay… absolutely _nothing._

Amid all of the papers is a near perfect rectangular space, empty and covered in that translucent layer of dust as well. _Something was there. Just what was it?_

Hermione purses her lips, not touching the scene for fear of contaminating it. She stares at that space, her eyes narrowing zooming closer into that empty cavity. Closer and closer and _closer-_

_Flicker—a small brown heap, the unknown book_.

"Whaa!" She jumps back, touching her head with her right hand and cutting off the rest of her speech with the left. _What on earth was that?_

"Penny! What was that?! You **better** not be messing around in my items!" She can _hear_ the anger in his voice, even at the mere notion of rifling through his private belongings. His footsteps start to thunder down the staircase. She doesn't reply, knowing it would give away her location. _I need to get out—NOW!_

Hermione starts, jumping towards the staircase, albeit a little less gracefully than the gazelle-like movements she had before. She turns back to the room one last time and then she notices it—the ink bottle knocked over on the corner spilled onto the table but the papers which should be leeching in the water-diluted ink showed only to be wet, not smudged.

_Invisibility Ink!_ she thinks. Looking up the stairs with near-panicked alertness, she realizes that McNair must be only moments away from reaching her. She makes a split-second decision.

Grabbing all of the papers, she promptly puts them in her small bag (Undetectable Extension Charm, remember?), with a quick Disillusionment charm to make it appear as if the table was untouched. Fleetly, she darts up, running down the hallway towards the left, away from the incoming boar of a man.

Once she is about 20 m down she waits a moment, long enough for McNair to notice the **closed** highly secretive door and runs back in his direction.

"Oh, I am _so_ sorry, sir! There was a rat down the hallway and I got frightened. It really is too bad that I did not have a _strong_ man like you around to help me." She holds her hands together in front of her, swaying back and forth and pouting up at him with feigned innocent fear.

The gullible man believes the trick, and with a self-satisfied smirk, pats her head. "Well, yes. What could a small, innocent girl like you do on your own?" he replies with a belittling smile.

The maid gifts him a sweet little smile, and turns back to head down the way she came, off to do some dusting with a flouncy little skip, her red bag bouncing alongside her.

Smirking all the while.

* * *

_BANG_.

Draco shuts the door, it becoming a loud slam unintentionally. His left hand grabs his temple, the pounding headache now echoing the slam of the door as well in irritating cacophony.

"DRACO! Where's my new purse?! Vionito Gazelli JUST designed it and I was the first to get it! Come on Draco. Where is it?" The annoyingly high-pitched voice nags his ears, whining and moaning like a fat cat being asked to move.

"How should I know, Astoria? Why would I care?" came his tired response. He sighs and puts down his work bag, his head falling into his right hand.

"Oh Drakey! I just spent 10 000 galleons on it! It was one of a kind! Don't tell me I have to wait until next week for the rest of my allowance?" Yikes, now her voice raises an octave, sounding as if her long, perfectly manicured, nails were scratching against a chalkboard, just reverberating throughout Draco's fatigued mind.

"Was it not just an early release? Won't it come out on official line soon anyway?" He plonks his bag on the floor, the house elves quickly whisking it out of sight before even the hollow _thud_ on the porcelain-like white-and-black tiled floor could be made. Two maids are seen dusting various piecemakers along the walls. No less than Halfbloods and Pureblooded Bloodtraitors work in plain sight at the Manor, of course. He walks forward into the adjacent sitting room, taking a seat on one of the sofas and leaning his elbows on his knees, his head falling into the waiting palms.

The spoiled heiress walks down the curving staircase like tantrum throwing child—flailing arms, loud voice and all "But pleeeeeea-"

"Enough Astoria. That is enough." His eyes flash towards his wife. That single glance towards her speaks of his seriousness. He looks for only a moment, then returning to his slumped position, but his wife is struck by his look.

But, an heiress cannot show concern! Not attachment! That is too personal. That means your heart can get scarred. Which is why despite being greatly aware of her husband's, not distraught, but almost _hurt_ mood, she ignores whatever little compassion she has still lodged somewhere in the deepest pit of her heart, and goes back to her act, huffing and stomping off to the second floor once more.

_This is becoming very difficult. _He stops to think about all that he must accomplish. All that he does to stay sane and right. All that he does to rectify his own guilt.

It is his daily routine but it is becoming harder than ever with the growing suspicions of the Dark Lord. It is not something that he does out of "pleasure," and if you ask him he would not say that "I would not trade this life for the world." It is something out of necessity.

Draco Malfoy is _not_ a selfless man. Do NOT get it confused.

Both his elbows rest on his knees, his hands gripping the hair one either side of his heavy head.

For five more seconds, he allows himself to indulge in his misery.

5..._ That annoying voice._

His lips part.

4… _Those horrid screams._

His eyes open.

_3… His lonely suffering._

They stare unblinkingly ahead.

2… _His guilty burden. _

They drop lower on the floor.

1… _The task._

His eyes close. His lips bring together a small smirk. Those orbs open and the steel returns, its determinedly malicious shine reflecting in the light.

* * *

"He's coming! He's coming!"

The servants quickly clean up the surrounding area, fulfilling their respective tasks. The house elves speedily grasp the wooden handles of their brushes, combing and flattening the furry red-and-black wallpaper, not that there was anything to comb in the already tamed bush. In the right light, it could look like Hell's fire, but to its inhabitants, it's home. The Mudbloods hurry to the kitchen, preparing all of their Master's favourite dishes, the wonderful scents mingling in the air.

One would think they all had the look of horror, of absolute nervousness to see Draco Malfoy, and that their increased efficiency is reflective of their fear.

But, is that really the case?

If so, then why are the Mudbloods smiling as they whisk their spoons and cut their vegetables. Why does no one cringe at the mere sound of the knife hitting the chopping block because it is reminiscent of his shoes _click-clacking_ on the tiled flooring of the kitchen?

And why, do all of the room's occupants take a deep bow as soon as the Master stepped into the room, willingly forcing their backs to bend as low as possible?

"Yes, yes. Enough of that," says the aristocrat, waving his hands and looking away from his servants, lowering his head as if almost embarrassed (or guilty?) with the attention and regard. All the servants flock to him, (while maintaining respectful distance, of course) and shower him praise, one talking over the other.

"It is so excellent to see you, sir!" says one, holding her cleaning rag in hand.

"Is there anything we can get you, sir?" asks another, rushing to the crowd.

"We're preparing your favourite dishes, sir! We're deeply grateful for that book you gave us with the recipes. They are brilliant!" says the old Head Cook.

"Yes sir! Your mother was a real genius with the stove, wasn't she?" adds one young cook.

CLANK.

Somewhere a pot drops in shell shock, heard ringing throughout the suddenly silent room.

"You _never_ mention his family!" whispers the Head Cook, urgently in her ear.

The girl looks around surprised, realizing she had said the wrong thing. "Deeply apologetic, sir?" she asks, her eyebrows curling together in fearful worry as she averts her eyes to the floor.

"What is your name?" asks the man at the center of all the glory, his voice hard, his eyes narrowing at the offender.

"Amelia, sir. Amelia Johnson. I just started working last wee-ow!" An elbow to her side warns her that she is speaking too much. She braves a look up at her employer who has moved to be right in front of her, towering over her frail body.

The man evaluates her, looking up and down her frame. His face like stone, the judgementally pursed lips seem to be carved in the eternal gravity of their decision. _Must be, 12? 15 at most if she was starved a great deal. _

His eyes bore into the top of her head, since she looks down in absolute terror at speaking her Master directly for the first time. Had he looked, he would have seen her eyes looking back and forth in nervousness, but even he is not so blind to have missed the drop of water that dripped from her face to the floor, with a muted _tup_.

He sighs, "Yes, they were good recipes. Don't do them injustice." He stares a moment longer, just long enough for the girl to look up at his stoic face in wide-eyed relief, shock and wonder, before he left the room, his black cloak billowing behind him as always.

"Yes, sir!" rings out faintly behind him and he indulges in a smirk that may just look like a smile, if he cares to admit it, which he never would.

* * *

"Was that really him?" inquires young Amelia Johnson—jaw dropped and all—to the elder cook who had been helpfully guiding her throughout the ordeal. The other servants smile at her compassionately.

This loving atmosphere, where she doesn't live in fear. One where she isn't mocked by her equals because of the insecurity of it all. One where no one appears to worry about "punishments" or worse, "rewards" through nightly visits to the Masters room. One where she is cared for and cares for others.

Silently, she looks up, seemingly past the tall ceiling, far away to a place no mortal eyes could see. With the stars as her witness, hearing the unspoken oath, she swears that from then on, she would answer to any need her Master asks for and made sure he knew the gratitude she felt. She closes her eyes, sealing the promise and locking it in their depths. Finally at peace, she faces the glance at the smiling Apple-Doll face of the Head Cook.

"Not what you were expecting, right?"

* * *

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Harry Potter, or any related characters, places and intellectual property. All rights are to JK Rowling.

**A/N:** *Peeks out impishly from the non-existent curtain* H-Hey guys!

Sorry for such a long break! I hope the extra long chapter makes up for it (though the length kinda just happened...I wonder how? ;D ) I was on vacation, and some of you know of the spotty and unreliable wifi in other countries, so really sorry about that! I will try to upload weekly again starting next week, but I am traveling more again this long weekend and have relatives visiting (busy, busy!). But be assured I will try my VERY best!

Not too many other announcements this time, except for the most important:

Thank you. I have realized I don't really say this and that I really should. For all of those who have taken the time to read my fanfic and moreover follow/fav/review it, please know that I truly, truly appreciate it!

And of course, I am always looking for criticism for writing and drawing (for those of you who checked out Hermione on my profile page), so drop me your thoughts on the story. Or on life. Or on the state of matter. Whatever floats your boat ;)

Write you later!

-Phoenixriser


End file.
